


I Am Bound To You (With A Tie I Cannot Break)

by rawrkinjd



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Oral Sex, Original Generation Witchers, Size Difference, Soft Cock Love, Temperature Play, Witcher Signs (The Witcher), briefly, inappropriate use of signs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 22:29:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28838559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rawrkinjd/pseuds/rawrkinjd
Summary: It’s many years before the fracture of the Order, Arnaghad and Erland believe they’ll face the world together. They enjoy an evening in each other’s arms not knowing that, many decades in the future, they’ll be forced to choose between their ideals and their love (aka, the daddy Witchers have some fun, warnings for smut and naughty use of Signs).
Relationships: Arnaghad/Erland of Larvik
Comments: 32
Kudos: 62
Collections: The Faded Texts





	I Am Bound To You (With A Tie I Cannot Break)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Megeara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megeara/gifts).



* * *

Erland watched a small sparrow hop across the expanse of the window before him. It nudged its way through the thickly woven foliage, tugging free dried leaves and fragile twigs, before returning to its project. It was an industrious little thing, its urgent chirps coordinating its effort with the mate that returned from more distant creeping vines, and Erland found himself watching its endeavours rather than focusing on the ledger before him. 

Castle Morgraig was full of such diversions if one wasn’t careful, some more distracting than others. Once his mind had plotted a sufficient narrative for his feathered friend, one full of healthy chicks and juicy earthworms, his gaze dropped down to the courtyard. The afternoon meant hand-to-hand drills for the boys yet to make the Choice. At their centre stood a towering mass of man and fur, barking and growling his orders, his beard and hair bound in elaborate, russet braids that made Erland’s fingers twitch with desire. _Arnaghad._

His partner in everything, his lover for many years now, Arnaghad hadn’t looked towards the window of their shared quarters once. He was too engrossed in his task, consumed by the frustration of making sure the younglings were ready for the next step; big enough, strong enough, _determined_ enough. Erland thought often of what Jagoda would’ve made of Arnaghad. She had been loud, fiery and dogged in the pursuit of perfection too. Yet no amount of determination saved her from the ravages of the Grasses.

Erland felt the familiar weight next. The pressure of expectation and responsibility that he wore like a mantle. Those that had died before them had not done so in vain. He was so consumed in his thoughts that he hadn’t noticed Arnaghad’s departure from the courtyard, and the click of the door at his back made him blink in surprise. The sun was beginning to set. The younglings would go about their chores, bathe and then return to the library for the evening’s writing practice. 

The thump of swords, the quiet grumbles of irritation and the slow, powerful thump of a huge, restless heart; they summoned Erland’s attention more keenly than the richest novel or most marvelous artefact. “They’re showing improvements,” Erland opened positively, because he could see the shadows of disappointment in the craggy lines of his lover’s face, “Bast is promising, and in a few years little Andrik will be as tall as you are.” 

“Hm,” there was a small smile, a fragile curl of the lips as Arnaghad shed his heavy fur cloak and plucked open the buckles of the giant belts around his chest. For everything about Arnaghad was giant. He ducked through most doors, nine-hands broad shoulders turning to fit through the frame, and to most he was terrifying. Not to Erland though. Erland saw through the grunts and growls, the bared teeth and the stern furrow of the brow, to the soft, cuddly creature on the inside. The creature that fretted now about the lives of the young boys currently scrubbing off the day’s sweat in the bathhouse, laughing and joking, only vaguely aware that the Trials would get far worse than a few foul-smelling broths.

Erland left his notes and crossed the room as Arnaghad dressed down to his shirt and trousers, and paused to stare forlornly into space as he was distracted by some thought or other. Thick fingers plucked open the first of the ties, but Erland’s hands slipped over the top. “Let me.”

“They’re too small,” Arnaghad rumbled, an earthquake inside a mountain. Erland could feel his deep voice vibrate in the chest beneath his palms, and he flicked a smile upwards as he loosened the ties of his shirt, “they won’t survive.”

“To you, everyone’s small.” Erland didn’t bother to grab the hem and lift; he’d have to learn to fly to stand a chance of getting it over Arnaghad’s head, so he took a step back to admire those beautiful braids woven with golden thread. With Arnaghad’s shirt and arms lifted, he left his expansive chest free for consideration, and Erland wasted no time in pressing his lips the very centre of the sprawl of fur. He buried his nose and breathed deeply, fingers tracing the rounded bulge of padded muscles, before he swept his palms around the small of his back, “even me.” 

“You’re bigger in other ways, Golubchik.” Arnaghad’s smile grew a little wider and Erland drew back to admire it. His amber eyes shone a little brighter, shedding the haze of doubt to look on Erland with certainty. Erland tilted his head into the fingers that traced the intricate swirls and patterns of the tattoo, eyes fluttering closed as Arnaghad began to communicate his affection in the way he was most comfortable with.

Arnaghad had never been good with words; he’d been mute when he arrived at the gates of Morgraig. Erland remembered it well. A fierce young man that bit and growled like a feral cat. Bigger than all the others, his strength had almost killed many a young initiate, and an instructor had come perilously close to losing a limb. Time and patience had taught him control. Erland had taught him how to communicate with more than just anger. Sometimes it was still hit and miss.

A calloused thumb brushed over Erland’s moustache, and then across his lower lip in one sweep. Even on his tiptoes, Erland had to stretch, craning desperately to receive the kiss offered, and tempted his lover back with a finger hooked in his waistband. “You were watching me,” Arnaghad mused.

“Inspecting your form, I can’t have younger witchers being trained by subpar instructors,” Erland didn’t need to look over his shoulder; he knew there would be a nonplussed scowl firmly in place, “but you seem up to scratch. I’ll let you continue.” 

Once they reached the bed, Erland hopped up onto the mattress so that he was finally within range of a proper kiss. He pressed his fingers through the coarse curls of Arnagahad’s beard and squeezed his knuckles against the firm line of his jaw. They pressed in close; tongues, and teeth, and lips stealing quiet gasps from Erland’s chest. 

Arnaghad tasted of the earth and the winter; copper, dense woodlands and fresh snows; deep, intoxicating. Something primal and ancient that rumbled beneath Erland’s palms. His bear had told him once that in turn he reminded him of the oceans; his birthplace. The ebb and flow of the tide, the scorching rays of the sun and the lyrical croon of a fiddle on a ship’s deck. “Even your voice sounds like a rolling wave,” he’d growled in a very rare moment of poetic clarity.

The sea lapped against his mountain, passing gentle caresses across the craggy lines of his face in an effort to erode away the last traces of tension. They drew apart slowly and Erland gazed into eyes that could’ve been mustered from the belly of a volcano. He dropped a hand away from Arnaghad’s face and pressed it to his chest, savouring the bloom of heat that rushed through firm muscle, his own prick thickening as his body responded to the musky scent of arousal on Arnaghad’s skin.

Arnaghad’s brow knitted together again, and his eyes dropped to glance between them. Erland felt the first coils of tension return. “It’s not… I don’t think I can tonight.”

“Tired?”

“Mm,” Arnaghad acknowledged with a grunt. It wasn’t unusual. In fact, it was far too common for his liking. It took more effort for him than most and if his body was fatigued, or his mood low, then it just didn’t happen. “I can still--.”

“Eh, I’ve got a better idea,” Erland smiled, footing adjusted on the bed. “Let me make you feel better. You look like you swallowed a wasp on your way through the herb gardens.”

“Funny how all your courtly airs disappear when you’re with me,” Arnaghad growled, “if I were a woman you’d be all flappin’ hands and low bows.”

“I spent three decades courting you,” Erland grabbed hold of the thick braid that weaved down the back of Arnaghad’s head and used it to pull him onto the mattress. The big bear growled irritably, upper lip twitching, but the flush down his neck told a very different story, “I think you ate the posies I left.”

“Yeah,” Arnaghad puffed a laugh as he flopped down onto his back, eyes following his little dove lazily as he left to collect a towel and one of his fancy potions. There was a right way to do everything - even fuck - and Arnaghad had learned many years ago that it was better to let Erland take the lead sometimes. He kicked off his trousers and braies, and then kneaded irritably at the soft furs beneath his back. Even though his body ached for the man that hopped up lightly onto the edge of the mattress, as swift and agile as the sparrows nesting outside their bedroom window, his useless cock remained soft between his thighs.

Erland stood over him as he stripped, athletic muscles rippling between bronze, tattooed skin, and Arnaghad’s mouth watered. When Erland turned briefly to glance at the closed window in consideration, Arnaghad admired the tail of his hair draped down his spine. When they were wintering together, Erland always let it grow long and now the very tip tickled across the pert curves of his ass. The first witcher was a work of art; his body sculpted and deadly, his tattoos intricate and beautiful, even the block of text on his ribs was stunning: the most important part of the Liber emblazoned upon its first son. 

Arnaghad felt another throb of heat when those intense eyes turned back to him, his own trailing down the lines and spirals of tattoos to Erland’s prick and the tight swell of his balls nestled in thick, dark curls. The great bear groaned, the sound like two tectonic plates shifting; he wanted it all. “Put that in my mouth.”

“Not yet,” Erland shoved his clothes off the bed and dropped the towel next to Arnaghad’s hips, “if you can come hard enough for me, I might let you.”

“What’s hard enough?” Arnaghad huffed, hands already lifting above his head instinctively to grasp the headboard. When there were rules, he wasn’t allowed to touch. Erland enjoyed looking after him this way and, if a knife were pressed to his throat, he would admit he enjoyed it too. The knife would have to be sharp, and wielded by another Witcher, and probably already cutting into his skin, and - 

Arnaghad sucked in a sharp breath as clever fingers brushed down the groove of his thigh muscle. He was foolish to think that it would take anymore than a sweet kiss and a gentle touch from Erland to get him to confess his darkest sins.

“I’ll decide at the time,” Erland left the oil on top of the towel and slid slowly up his lover’s body. He took his time, grinding himself across firm thighs, hips rolling over that beautiful, soft cock that would be the object of all his attention soon enough. When his own prick, hard and eager, rested in the soft plushness of Arnaghad’s stomach, his legs splayed, Erland allowed himself a moment of lustful abandon. He squirmed happily, head thrown back, before he buried his face in Arnaghad’s glorious chest. 

His body tasted just as his mouth had; a deep, feral masculinity that teased at the carefully groomed creature in Erland’s head. It made him want to growl, bite and claw; no better than the creatures they hunted that consumed everything in their path. Arnaghad had laid himself out like a banquet though, and it’d be rude to decline. Erland sucked red marks into strong, ungiving muscle, leaving the grooves of his teeth in bruised skin; he traced the line of jagged scars with the tip of his tongue and clutched at the furs beneath them as Arnaghad quaked. 

He could feel the wet smear of his own cock as he shifted lower, knowing he could thrust against the man below him and come in moments. The heart that hammered beneath his lips no longer sedentary, but stirred to a brisk beat as their dance intensified. Erland grinned mischievously as Arnaghad peered down at him and lifted a hand from the bed. His eyes lit up with golden fire even as Chaos gathered in his palm beneath carefully arranged fingers. 

Tongues of heat licked over Arnaghad’s dark skin, circling a nipple before it cupped around the bulge of his pec, and his entire body pulled taut. The headboard creaked in protest, fists tightening as Arnaghad processed the thrill of pleasure that spidered through his skin. “Erland,” he gasped, desperate for more. 

The only way his dove touched him now was through that magical fire, a bastardisation of igni that only Erland knew, skilled as he was with their rudimentary form of magic. He’d probably absorbed it from one of the many cabbalistic tomes stacking the library. A secret only he was dedicated enough to unearth. All Arnaghad knew was that his mind was melting out of his ears, chest humming with low moans as the waves lapped down his ribs to his hip, “please.”

“Use your words,” Erland whispered as the flames simmered out, his eyes dimming to their usual shade of liquid amber, “tell me what you need.”

Arnaghad whined. It wasn’t the high pitched croon of a smaller man, but a low, frustrated rumble that ended in an upwards inflection. He couldn’t. The words were there, but they wouldn’t fall onto his tongue in the right order. “You,” he managed, “just you.” Wide eyes pleaded, biceps bulging as his grip on the bed tightened, and Erland pressed a soft kiss in the fluff of his chest. Rather than press him further, Erland slipped down his body and sat between his thighs, which he eagerly spread for him, almost knocking the oil onto the floor. Palms and fingers still alive with the residual sparks of magic spread tingles of pleasure over the skin they touched, and Arnaghad arched as they finally, mercifully stroked down his prick.

Erland smiled toothily, cupping delicate flesh in his palm for a few gentle tugs. Arnaghad had plumped a little, the tip drooling a few milky beads against the soft skin of his thigh. With his other hand he cupped the heavy balls nestled in a thatch of auburn curls, squeezing lightly, only enough to coax another soft groan of his name. Arnaghad’s chin was tilted up as he bowed and shivered, but Erland knew his other tells; the heave of his chest, the quiver that ran down his arm and the eager lift of his legs. Too keen for the finale. Always the way.

Erland spent time rolling his still impressive length through his hand, teasing every nerve ending with soft caresses accented with a little magic to help them along. He pressed two fingers down the slip of smooth skin between Arnaghad’s sac and his hole, tips pressing to the tight circle of muscle. The strong body before him clenched greedily, and then tipped itself over the edge. Arnaghad, his teeth clenched in a desperate effort to maintain control, spilled over Erland’s hand in hot pulses. “Hmm, that’s one.” There was no genuine malice to his teasing, and Arnaghand slumped in hazy resignation. “If I’d known you were so tightly wound, I would’ve forgone the fire.”

“Mm,” Arnaghad grumbled. He’d whimper soon enough.

Erland rested his lover’s cock down long enough to coat one hand in oil before returning to his caresses. It was so effortless to tease a finger inside; Anaghad was desperate for him, body opening around the swell of his knuckle with a keen flutter. His channel, hot and velvet smooth, tightened when Erland found the centre of his pleasure with a careful crook of his finger. “Perhaps a little longer this time?”

“Nffgh,” Arnaghad replied, any retort he could muster dissolving into a deep sigh as another finger eased inside him. Only when they stilled, his balls resting against the heel of Erland’s hand, did his breath return enough to whisper a request, “fuck me.”

“No. Not yet.”

“Erland,” Arnaghad lifted his head for an incredulous glare, only to press back when Erland’s hand moved again. As the only person in the entire citadel that got away with denying Arnaghad anything, Erland liked to flex his muscles now and then. 

“Just relax, let me take care of it,” he murmured, thumb brushing up the underside of Arnaghad’s hypersensitive cock. His lover enjoyed the stretch and so, after adding a little more oil, he eased a third finger inside. His thumb caressed over the taut skin and Arnaghad keened, strong thighs shaking, as Erland tortured his prostate. The first time he came without any further attention on his cock, deep voice losing its bass as he choked out a much more traditional whine of desperation. 

But Erland wasn’t finished. He wanted Arnaghad’s mind in pieces, wanted his body weak and pliable, the days worries buried in a haze of pleasure. It only took a soft touch and a gentle word. Arnaghard wasn’t a complicated man beneath the layers of temper and growls. It wasn’t a criticism. In a world so complex, so twisted with intrigue that it often made Erland’s head hurt, Arnaghad was like the first breath of air after being submerged in icy water. Freedom and openness. To love Arnaghad was to love someone who expected nothing more from you than to be able to love you in return, in his own way. Erland leaned down and pressed a soft kiss on his lover’s quivering thigh, and smiled against his sweat-slick skin when it calmed him just a bit.

The hair on Arnaghad’s stomach turned white with his own spend, a third orgasm teased from him with another flare of altered igni over the underside of his cock. That edge between pleasure and pain was his sweet spot; the sharpness of one softened with bliss of the other. The fingers in his ass were merciless, and Erland pushed a thumb into the soft skin of his perineum to massage him from two sides. 

The bed creaked louder in distress, and the next climax proved to be its demise. As his fourth orgasm poured through him, Arnaghad’s fingers splintered through the struts. Erland nursed him through the shivering aftershocks, and then slowly withdrew his hands. “I can’t keep telling the carpenter that I was experimenting with Aard in my room, you know,” he wiped his hand on the towel nearby, “he’s suggested I practice in the courtyard like the rest of the miscreants. Miscreant, Arni. He called me a miscreant.” 

“Urf,” the bear replied, delirious, hands groping blindly for any piece of Erland he could reach, “‘nuff?” 

“Oh, still with me?” Erland’s smile bloomed again, and he wasted no time in crawling up that broad chest. Sore hands grasped weakly at his hips, and he allowed himself to be pulled ever higher until his balls brushed the coarser hair of Arnaghad’s beard. Those big eyes were still asking permission though, watery and wide. Even with the headboard of their bed in ruins across the pillows, Arnaghad felt powerless beneath Erland’s touch. He shifted a little higher and straddled his face, the tender skin of his thighs rasping pleasantly over that glorious beard. A glance down the slope of his chest revealed hungry eyes once more, suddenly bright and sharp with excitement. Erland leaned forward and hummed in delight at the first press of warm lips against his sac.

His bear was far from chaste however, and he was soon mouthing hungrily over the tight balls that fell within reach. Erland hissed, lower back bunched as his spine arched. One hand braced on the wall while the other buried itself within those braids he yearned for so deeply. “Nnngh, Arni, mmm,” Erland didn’t cuss usually, but it hung on the tip of his tongue as his prick slipped past those soft lips. His fingers tightened on his captive braid and Arnaghad moaned in appreciation, no doubt revelling in the prickles of sensation that burst out across his scalp, “fuck.” Erland seethed, nails catching on the cold stone of the wall as Arnaghad’s nose buried against his groin. The beast was using his throat, swallowing greedily around the fat head already so wet with desire for him, and it was torturously good.

Big hands pawed at his hips, kneaded his ass and moved his hips as they wanted. Arnaghad was desperate to please, and Erland was more than willing to be pleased. His head fell back, his own woven braid tickling across the rough fingers gripping bruises into his ass as Arnaghad devoured his cock. It was wanton worship. Disastrously uncoordinated and feral with intensity, but Erland needed neither finesse nor skill, he just needed Arnaghad. His hunger, the bestial growls that vibrated down the shaft of his cock and curled to a crescendo in his stomach, the tug of his fingers like bear claws against his flesh. He needed the fire in the eyes he gazed into when they weren’t otherwise closed in pure bliss. 

For someone to be so lost for him, so desperate to please him, to have this powerful, sombre creature in ruins around his cock to the point he’d shattered the bed and was now squirming in the soiled furs in delirious euphoria, was a heady kind of power. Erland’s orgasm lapped through him without resistance. He felt the power of it behind his eyes and opened them to stare blankly at the ceiling. Power crackled from the hand braced on the wall as he pushed his hips forward, burying himself deep in Arnaghad’s throat. 

Purple lines spidered over rough stonework, creating the patterns of yrden in a haphazard explosion towards the rafters. The light leaked from his eyes too, overpowering the deep golden ichor, with tendrils brushing down the clawed scars of his cheeks. Arnaghad stared up at his lover in awe, the runes and etchings of the Sign emblazoned on the wall reflected back in his sweat slick skin until he glowed, raw and ethereal. Erland was luminescent; beautiful, more so than usual, his power breaking through the cracks that Arnaghad had made. 

They folded together. Arnaghad rolled onto his side and buried his face against the slope of Erland’s neck, his mouth open, tongue pressed to the salty taste of his skin. They lay together a while in the mess of their passion; the musk, the stickiness, a dull throb in the background as they basked in the closeness of each other. When Erland stirred, intent on cleaning up, Arnaghad placed a huge palm in the centre of his chest to still him for a moment longer. “Why yrden?”

Erland’s brow creased, sleepy eyes examining the chiseled features of his lover in contemplation. “I wanted to trap it,” he said, finally.

“Trap what?”

“The moment,” he smiled, his huff of amusement somewhat self-deprecating. “I wanted to trap the pleasure, the happiness, of having you right here, safe in my bed.” That way he could have it whenever he wished, not just during the winter.

“Wrapped around your cock more like,” Arnaghad teased, grin roguish, “yeah, thought as much.”

“So feckin’ charming,” Erland grumbled.

“Well shit, the inner Skelligen is set free.” Arnaghad slumped back, hands tucked behind his shaggy head. “Say feck again. No, say, ‘we have to rise above, become m--.” 

Erland clamped a hand over Arnaghad’s mouth as he began the job of cleaning up their mess, and tried not to be too enamoured by those huge, amber eyes that glittered with mischief over the edge of his palm.

Years later, when the Order fragmented and Erland lay in bed, recovering from the wound inflicted by his lover’s hand, his mind would travel back to that very night. The night he tried to trap their love with Yrden and hold it close forever. He’d remember the rumbling laughter, the desperate pleasure, and the soft embraces that followed. He’d remember the quiet conversation about Andrik and Arnaghad’s hopes the boy would survive, the feel of his strong, gentle heart beating beneath Erland’s ear. He’d remember a time when Arnaghad listened to him, when he believed in more than just loneliness and misery, and he’d remember their plan to return to each other every year until the end of their days.

He’d remember and he’d _weep._

**Author's Note:**

>   * Arnaghad is the future leader of the School of the Bear.
>   * Erland is the future leader of the School of the Griffin, and the first witcher.
>   * Arnaghad is _tall_. He's nine hands broad according to legend.
>   * Here are [Erland](https://gwent.one/en/card/202821) and [Arnaghad's](https://gwent.one/en/card/202811) voices.
> 



End file.
